Work Text:
[7:17PM]
Markus had found himself painting Simon a lot. Every portrait of a person ended being of that sad smile, pretty blue eyes and soft blond hair. Every landscape he painted he subconsciously managed to feature Simon's eye colour; in the flowers of fields or the blue of the sky. Sometimes he even tried to recreate that morning in the studio with Carl, closing his eyes and letting his hand drift across the canvas while he focused on nothing and everything in hopes that something new would appear on his canvas. But Simon always came out.
It was not only frustrating, deadly embarrassing when he saw the fellow android everyday, but also incredibly unbecoming of rA9 himself. Having a silly crush on one of his three best friends—imagine if the media got hold of that.
The embarrassment would always creep up on him when he allowed himself to indulge in the feeling, and forget everyone else, then someone would knock on his studio door to tell him something important. He couldn't keep himself from becoming bright blue when Simon was the one at the door.
Now, allowed to seclude himself to his studio after yet another busy day, Markus is left alone with his problem. His Simon problem. His—lord, there were far too many but also not enough words to describe it. He could search every dictionary on the available internet in seconds, but he just couldn't be bothered. There was no use in defining it. The question was: what was he to do with it?
Finding standing in the middle of his cool studio useless, Markus huffed and approached an easel. He picked up yet another blank canvas and placed it where it fit perfectly. He retrieved his paint pallet, messy with stains and slipped his left thumb into it perfectly. It felt like an extension of his hand now. Then, he took a sort-of clean brush from a clear pot he had put aside last night.
He dipped delicately in one colour that he didn't look at, and began drawing a shape. Markus didn't know what he was painting—he hadn't for weeks, even months now—he just continued the cycle of trying, hoping that some sort of new project would show itself. The shape began to resemble an outline of a face, drawing the jawline of someone, perhaps. It was painted in a murky green that reminded Markus of muddy grass after a long rain in the winter.
He sighed, calming himself down slightly. The creativity began to flow—was this a person? Where did they come from, how do they feel? What does the green of their skin represent? He dipped into a blue colour and mixed it with white to create a light blue. He began to paint what he planned to be flowers for the person's eyes—mixing in darker shades of blue to shape the petals and the small yellow centres that acted as pupils.
The figure came into shape as Markus painted. He felt reminded of his machine nature as his right arm moved from the pallet, to the canvas and back again more and more.
[7:42PM]
Then, when he stepped back after what felt like an hour, but instead was more likely to be around twenty five minutes, and gazed at the person he'd created. They were most akin to a depiction of Mother Nature—green, leafy skin with faint blue flowers for eyes. Lighter leaves, mostly yellow but orange and red at the roots, acted as hair and it made them look like a man. They were looking up to the top left of the painting, with a mouth resting in a flat line but leaning towards a frown. They were looking at something out of sight and held up cupped yet empty hands.
His thirium pump swelled with pride and he let himself have a small smile as he searched in vain for any similarities to Simon. The person was composed entirely of nature, polar opposite to the android's artificial and mechanical self. Their skin was also green, to point out the obvious.
But then Markus looked again and he cursed himself. The light blue eyes, the—mostly—blond hair and that stoic, nearly sad expression.
Markus gently placed the pallet and the brush down onto the closest table. Then, he turned away from the painting and to the wide windows on the other side of the room. They were only partially covered by curtains, so Markus stared out at the dry, spring evening for a few moments as he let sink in his reality once more after his moment of hope. He held his head in his hands.
Hopeless, he thought. You are simply hopeless, Markus. He turned back to the painting and the man composed of leaves and petals stared aimlessly away from him. He looked like he was asking a higher power for something, with his empty hands. Markus's system handily delivered a notification that told him that this was his thirty-third painting that reminded him of Simon.
He dismissed it immediately, feeling so utterly out of control but what was there to do?
What was there to do, he asked himself again and he imagined what others would say if he asked them that question. Carl would tell him to lean into it, maybe he'd found his muse. That certainly was not an option when this was interrupting all of his more important matters. Josh would mostly likely say something like: "Try and take your mind off it. Do something new. Stop locking yourself in your studio.". North would most likely say: "Talk to someone about it. Preferably Simon.".
And he sighed at the thought. Yes, that was what he should do: talk to Simon about it.
Next question: how to say "Simon, I believe I have fallen deeply in love with you so far that it is taking over all of my free thought and most of my occupied thought, I have thirty-three paintings of you that I am hideously embarrassed of and I physically cannot paint anything else."? Markus didn't have a social relations program, but he knew that there was no way to phrase all of his thoughts in a logical way that would not make Simon uncomfortable to some degree.
Markus sighed heavily through his nose, tearing his eyes away from the father nature character he had constructed with Simon's likeness and not bothering to put it away or take it off the easel. He walked with long strides through a door left of his easel, into his personal bedroom and changed his shirt to something more proper. He slipped on socks, then shoes, left his painting shirt strewn on the bed and took his coat from the hook on the door.
He sent a digital message to North, Josh and Simon that he was leaving for a while and that he'd be back by nine pm at the latest. They were all presumably in stasis, but if they were to wake up there would be no need to be concerned over Markus's whereabouts.
Wandering through the large apartment they all shared and out to the hallway, Markus didn't think he was thinking. All that was in his mind was Simon, and the paintings. Carl would tell him to embrace his feelings, he had thought. Perhaps it was time to test that thought.
He called a self-driving taxi easily, slipping into the car and it took off as soon as it's door closed. Despite being Carl's ex-caretaker and basically his son, Markus didn't particularly have the capacity to care about waking him up when it was night time. The thought didn't even cross his mind until he was outside 8941 Lafayette Avenue, drizzly rain wet his coat but he barely registered it.
[7:57PM]
Lights were off in every window. But Markus sighed, it wasn't too late and this was the sort of thing Carl had asked him to come to him about for advice.
He wandered up to the front door like this wasn't the house he called home for the majority of his life, almost not expecting the door to open automatically to him. "Good evening, Markus." The high voice chimed, and Markus stepped into the warmth.
George was at the top of the stairs near instantly—he was remarkably alert, even for an android—and connected to Markus as to not create noise with their conversation. "Markus? Can I help you?" The concern in his digital voice was obvious. Markus hung up his coat before he looked at George at all.
"Yes. Is Carl awake?" He asked, trying to keep his tone neutral as possible. He felt unnatural in the home, asking another android about his father.
George's eyebrows drew together in question, green eyes fixing Markus to the spot. He always held eye contact like that. "He is not, but I'm sure he would speak to you if that's what you want?" George would have regularly just said no. Deviancy had fuelled him full of empathy that meant he could tell that Markus was upset, despite their few interactions.
Markus bit his lip as he diverted his mismatched eyes for a second. He looked back at George, who had titled his head in rising concern. "I'd like that. Thank you, George." It took a few seconds before George moved, he nodded slightly before he turned silently and wandered left to Carl's room. Markus still recognised the noise of the sliding door opening automatically as he looked around at the pretty decorations.
After a few minutes, Carl came out on his wheelchair, pushed by George and quickly carried down the stairs by the mechanism along the wall. Once he was back in his wheelchair, he pulled himself over to Markus and took one of his hands. "Markus? What's happened?" Carl looked up at him, concern reinforced the wrinkles in his face. There was no witty greeting; Carl knew something was wrong. Markus nearly wanted to cry.
George walked down the hallway and left to the kitchen. Markus didn't answer Carl, so Carl let him go. "Let's talk about this." The old man told him gruffly. Markus followed him silently to the living room, and he was ushered into one plush seat near the television.
Markus sat down, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. Carl sat in anxious silence for a few minutes, looking at his son sadly. A visit on such late notice at this hour was unheard of for Markus. To make his stoic, strong son so emotional was a feat of some sort of strength. Not a good strength, but one nonetheless.
Markus kept his eyes on the coffee table. How to phrase this? Would Carl even be any help? It could just have been a mistake to come here. To worry Carl and George with his inability to grasp love could have just been in vain.
George interrupted the silence and Markus looked up for the sake of politeness. He was holding two mugs: one black with a white smiley face and a red stripe along the top that steamed, placed on Carl's side of the table, and a shorter, round cup that fit with Carl's kitchen decor that was placed on Markus's side of the table. It was filled with blue; some sort of Thirium drink.
"Thank you, George." Carl muttered. George didn't reply, but his oh-so-sure footsteps faded out of the room and the sliding doors closed behind him. Markus waited for the footsteps to fade upstairs before he looked at Carl.
"I'm...sorry to wake you." Markus began, his voice catching in his throat, coming out partially as static. Carl shook his head. "No, no. None of that." He waved a hand in front of him dismissively. Carl made eye contact with him; eyes serious and hard. "What's upset you, my boy?" He asked, patiently.
Markus thought of how to phrase it. He couldn't compile a sensible script quick enough and just began at the most obvious. "I'm in love." He stated, simply, and Carl looked almost pleasantly surprised at it. Markus let the words hang in the air; unsure of where to go after that. "And it's causing you trouble?" Carl continued for him. Markus nodded. "It's taking over all my time. I keep—" He bit his own tongue. Admitting it made him feel so uncomfortable.
"—I keep painting him." He sighed his words out, figuring there was no going back now. "Every painting, everything I try to make ends up being about him. Every person becomes him." Markus shook his head as he recounted the information, feeling how ridiculous it was now that it was said out loud. His tone certainly spoke volumes of just how frustrated he was. "I have thirty-three paintings of him, Carl."
Carl nodded as he spoke, taking in the information. "How do you feel about him—the one you love?" He asked a seemingly unrelated question. Markus was temporarily distracted for a moment before he thought of an answer. "I don't know..." That was a lie. Of course he knew. "He's just perfect. He works so hard, he helps out everyone, his smile is so sweet and I adore the sound of his voice." The words came easier than Markus thought they would. He was smiling, he realised, as he pictured Simon in his mind.
Carl was smiling, he looked proud. He nodded again. "Then why are you so ashamed of the paintings you make? They're simply an expression of love, Markus." Markus counted all the paintings in his mind. All thirty-three, including the one he'd left on the easel. He remembered the one that was an unashamed portrait of Simon; the one of few that you couldn't squint and possibly interpret it as just any generic man.
Markus sighed and pondered the question. He did adore the paintings because of the man they portrayed, but he also felt an equal irritation towards them. "I shouldn't feel this way." He began. "I'm Markus, leader of the deviants, rA9 to some. I shouldn't have a crush." He huffed, then, "It certainly shouldn't affect me this much, anyway." He finished, in a self-deprecating manner.
Carl didn't wait to answer this time. "There is no shame in loving someone. It's your first, too, you deserve the experience of falling in love." Markus cringed at his advice. He hated how correct Carl was—he figured this was how people generally felt when they were given advice. He certainly recognised his own reaction, remembering North pulling a similar face at one time.
Markus sighed, letting his shoulders drop and deciding to take a break from the conversation and reach for his mug. He sipped it. It tasted like tea, though he was sure it was just regular Thirium. Brands had brought out flavoured Thirium that tasted like human beverages to androids. He put it back as the liquid slipped down his throat and into his system.
"You're right." He said, after a moment and looked up at Carl. "I think I'm going to try talking to him." He glanced down at the carpet, unsure of the promise despite his words.
Carl grinned brightly, "Good, good." The human looked tired now. Markus stood up, "Thank you, Carl." Carl's eyes followed him but Carl himself didn't move. "I'll be going now, thank you for your advice." Markus shuffled around the coffee table to give Carl a hug. Carl remained quiet as Markus left the room, and just as the sliding doors opened, Carl called: "It's Simon, isn't it, Markus?"
Markus went blue at the mention of his name. He almost jumped, and Carl certainly noticed as evidenced by his long chuckle. Markus sent a playful glare over his shoulder and didn't answer, instead retrieving his coat and leaving for his apartment.
—————
[7:59PM]
Simon was hunched at one of the Jericho library's desks, surrounded by books and the terminal he was working at glowing blue against his face. He was lucky not to be affected by blue light in some ways, but he sure wish he was now. He was desperate to stay awake and continue with the two essay-like objectives to complete. One was something about android marriage, the other was about androids being paid for their jobs. He was sure there was something else about giving androids legal last names, too, but it was more of a post-it idea than a full blown task to undergo.
Josh had asked him to look over the android marriage document. And by 'Look over', it really meant 'Look over my summary and write, edit and structure all of it it yourself'—alright, that was harsh, but Simon was just too tired to care. He didn't want to disappoint Josh, but he also wanted to tell him to shove the assignment where the sun don't shine and go into stasis for at least seven hours.
He decided to allow himself to be distracted instead of either of those options. Just for a little while. His mind wandered near immediately to Markus. Simon and him hadn't spoken in what felt like quite a while now—they'd talked about business, sure, but what time had they spent on anything that wasn't their basic rights? From Simon's memory, near zero.
Simon had noticed that Markus would work all day, then spend his whole evening in his studio and his bedroom for weeks now. He was concerned, but perhaps Markus just wanted some alone time. And who could blame him? The most famous android in the world must want time to be his own person instead of just a symbol. That time was most likely spent painting.
What had Markus had been painting, Simon wondered. He'd only ever been in his studio once or twice, out of the lack of necessity for being there but also the fact that he felt flattered to be allowed into such a personal space; it made him blue thinking of just being there sometimes. From what he remembered, the place was plastered with canvases of all sizes, some painted, some not. The ones that were painted seemed like experiences all of their own—each portraying, at least to Simon, strong emotions. Some were joy, some were dread, some were depression and some were hope.
To see them all at once was almost a sensory overload; and Simon was fascinated for the brief glance he got. And, heck, it made him fall for Markus just a little more—if it were possible, after he came to Jericho and practically swept him off his feet unintentionally.
Sighing, he brought himself back to reality. The document stared at him, cursor blinking where he should be writing words, like it was confused by his lack of activity. He glanced towards the top of the document to the part that said: "Last edit made 14 minutes ago.". He waited until it ticked over to fifteen minutes before he shut off the terminal in frustration.
He leaned back in his chair, groaning tiredly and rubbing his eyes. Home time, he decided. Now that the terminal was closed he no longer had the effort left in him to open the document up again. He forwarded it to Josh via digital message with an apologetic note about not being able to finish it that he didn't actually feel and stood up.
He collected any physical items he'd brought with him; like his jacket draped over the back of the chair that held his ID and his phone that he rarely ever used in it's pockets. Pulling the puffy warmth over his shoulders, he also collected one or two books he'd found in the fiction section during a time earlier in the day where he let himself get very distracted.
Simon looked forward to reading them, as he favoured physical books, but doubt he'd have the time and had already identified electronic versions he could just read in his head when he closed his eyes.
He waved goodbye to the lovely librarian android that tolerated his endless use of her space, and wandered out to discover it was forecasted to rain soon. Wonderful, he thought. At least their apartment wasn't too far away from the Jericho building.
He walked down the street in silence, enjoying the time between his responsibilities at the library and the ones at home, feeling the breeze turn cold as he turned onto the correct street and increasing his speed as a result.
[8:05PM]
Once past the quiet lobby, the empty elevator, and passing through the desolate hallways, Simon entered the shared apartment. Oh, how he so looked forward to stasis. He couldn't hear any movement in the apartment, nor any talk, so he assumed everyone else was either asleep, out, or just very quiet. They tended to be at the end of the day; all of them preferring to retract into their own space and enjoy their own company for a while.
He made no fuss of untidy clutter, he had plenty of time to do that tomorrow, instead Simon headed directly for his own room. It was a comfortably big space, attached to a bathroom. They had gotten so very lucky with the apartment; President Warren really didn't want them going without.
He shelved the books in the 'To Read' section of his small bookshelf, the former outgrowing the 'Finished Reading' section with the new additions. Simon shrugged it off, before removing and hanging up his jacket and kicking off his shoes. He was a stickler for having the shoes taken off the door, an old habit from his machine days, but the rule had worn off for him. Josh and North followed it; always keeping the shoe rack used. But he found himself always with his arms full when he walked through the door nowadays.
Simon flopped down onto his bed after changing into another shirt and removing his trousers. He didn't bother to get under the covers or into a comfortable position, he just shut his eyes and wait for stasis to quiet his mind.
No such event occurred. At least not as quick as Simon had hoped for and not quick enough for him to wait for. A thought kept popping up in his mind: what has Markus been painting recently? Such a stupid, perhaps even invasive question. But still, it nagged at him, not matter how much he dismissed it.
He brought up his internal clock: 8:05PM. Simon sighed. It wasn't that late, maybe he could make up an excuse to speak to Markus and get a look inside his studio—he was already moving as he thought. He pulled sweatpants on half-heartedly, and wandered over to Markus's studio's entrance. It was peculiar how he decided to put his studio in front of his room.
He tried to keep his footsteps light and quiet. He did the same with his knock on Markus's door; in response it merely swung open, revealing a very empty room. Simon was confused. He checked his recent notifications and found that there was a message from Markus: he was out. That made more sense. Simon turned off notifications to study earlier today. He turned them back on as he looked inside the studio.
It wasn't wrong to look inside, right? He asked himself that as he stepped inside. Just one quick look and he'd be fine.
The room was cold to Simon, he was more sensitive to temperature than Markus was. He was going to spin around to look at the wall where Markus hung his paintings, but the easel caught his eye. A painting rested on it, paint still wet. It shined in the light overhead.
It looked messier in here than Simon remembered. Painting pallet and brush discarded without being washed; there were paint pots on the ground, paint hardened on the edges and brush handles stuck out of pots with the most disgusting water Simon had ever seen. It was unlike Markus to keep a space so messy, especially with how much time he'd spent here.
Simon refocused on the painting. To him, it portrayed some sort of nature vs. technology message. A man, made entirely of leaves and flowers, was looking up at something not painted yet with empty hands. Like it was asking for something. Simon assumed it was unfinished and turned his attention away from it.
More depictions of the same figure stuck out to him. There was a painting that clearly had a dying android on it; they were bleeding profusely blue liquid and had an emphasised red LED.
In another painting, that was painted entirely of pink and red shades, the head to the collar bones of the person were painted. They looked very happy and captured in the midst of laughter; they seemed to act as a lightbulb to the rest of the painting, the colour becoming progressively redder and darker as it reached the edges, but they were highlighted in light pink shades.
They were everywhere. It was odd; very odd. Markus wasn't one for depicting specific people, his paintings tended to communicate a message or an emotion rather than just being of something he liked. Simon looked around the room, down this time and behind one of the shelves he saw another canvas sticking out from behind it.
He rushed over to pull it from where it seemed to have been intentionally hidden. Once he held it in both hands, and placed it against the shelf, he was able to recognise the person.
Him. It was him. The painting he'd found behind the shelf was a portrait; and if Markus could win an award for how much care put into a painting, he'd get all of them for this. It was Simon, like he'd looked into a funhouse mirror that somehow turned him into paint. If you looked close enough, you'd see the brush strokes, but otherwise it looked like a perfect picture of Simon himself.
It was a simple upper body shot, his face the main subject. He was smiling, his eyes squinting just a bit as the smile reached them, but the blue Markus had used to colour them still stuck out. There was a blue colour seemingly radiating from the painted Simon; similar to the colour used for it's eyes, growing lighter as it spread across the canvas.
Simon—the real one—went as blue as his painted self's eyes. Markus had been painting...him. Him. Just him. No one else.
He felt flattered—and looked around the room for any other paintings like that one. The red and pink one had similar hair to him, the one with the dying android was blond with white skin. Even the painting on the easel, now that he looked at it again, could be compared to him.
What to do with this information was the next question—did he just pretend this never happened? Does he bring it up to Markus, tell him all about how Simon had been in love with him since November 9th of last year?
The door creaked open before he came to a conclusion. He jumped, turning towards the door and freezing when he saw who was there.
Markus looked sad—depressed, even. His coat was wet and his eyes were unfocused on his surroundings, until he met Simon's eyes.
"Simon." He acknowledged quietly, freezing in the doorway. Simon offered his best nervous smile, "Markus." He breathed. His heartbeat rang in his ears, oh god what was he going to say.
Neither said anything for a few minutes. Markus looked over to where the portrait of Simon he'd made was exposed, and supposed he knew now. If it was possible for androids to have an upset stomach, a lump in his throat, all that good stuff, he would.
They stole glances at each other's faces, sometimes at the same time, which just made the blue in their faces stronger and for them to avert their gaze.
Simon spoke up first. He might as well. "I was looking at the paintings, a-and I noticed..." He looked at the portrait of him on the ground. "...they're of me." Well done, Simon, you managed to acknowledge a fact.
He felt embarrassed. Very much so. Like he'd never be forgiven—but he also felt this was a secret they both needed out in the open. "They're beautiful," He tried again, when Markus didn't respond, anxiety lacing his voice.
Markus spoke without thinking. "Thank you, but it's you I should be thanking for being so beautiful in the first place." Well—maybe not without thinking. Maybe he'd thought of that line a month or two ago, and really wanted to say it. Simon blushed.
They were silent again. They knew now, but shared the same question: now what do they do?
Markus started. "I went to visit Carl." Simon perked up as Markus stepped more into the room, taking off his coat and closing the door behind him. "I told him about you, and how I was feeling." Simon watched like a hawk as Markus picked up the portrait of him, and put it on a table instead of the ground.
"He told me there was no shame in loving someone." Markus repeated the advice he'd received verbatim. It felt better to say it out loud. He looked at Simon, who was smiling hopefully and keeping those deep blue eyes he'd been so fixated on for months now on him.
"And there isn't." Simon agreed. Markus smiled, feeling something clench at his heart. Simon approached him, hesitantly, slowly. He reached out his arms to Markus's torso and wrapped his arms around him, constantly glancing at Markus's face for any sign of protest. Seeing none, he succeeded in pulling Markus into him for a tight and well needed hug.
Markus melted against him, hooking his head over Simon's shoulder and wrapping his arms around him too. They stayed like that; savouring each other's touch, each other's warmth and smell for a few moments. Both of their breathing slowed to reflect how calm and at peace they felt.
Simon pulled back a little, just enough for them to look at each other. "I've loved you since November 9th." He confessed suddenly, his face portraying how desperate he was to say it. Markus couldn't help but laugh from pure happiness, to hear the words spoken aloud.
And before he knew it, Markus was reaching for Simon's hand and pressing them flush against each other. And before Simon even ordered the protocol, his skin was disappearing from that hand and the joints in each other's hands glowed blue as they interfaced.
Simon could feel the affection coming through the line, repressing his giggling at how happy and light he felt from it. He could tell Markus felt it too, as they both laughed quietly between themselves.
Then, Markus saw his memories. November 9th, 2038: the day they marched out on the street to protest for their rights. But that wasn't the part Markus saw. He saw from Simon's perspective as he limped back in to Jericho, around a corner before Markus saw himself. Silence for a few seconds before the past Markus rushed forward to hug the past Simon. It was the day Simon returned from Stratford Tower and Markus could remember not letting him out of his sight for the rest of the day.
Their hands were covering themselves with skin again as they held hands instead of pressing them against each other, interlocking their fingers and smiling, smiling so widely. Simon lowered his free hand from Markus's mid back to his waist, to keep him firmly there in the embrace. Markus nearly teased him on it, but he just couldn't.
To be with Simon with the words he'd wanted to say already said, after gruelling over the feelings for months now, was freeing.
He looked at Simon in the eye. Simon looked back at him. They had the same thought.
They closed the small gap between them, and closed their eyes as their lips pressed together.
Simon, Markus thought to himself, my muse. My love.